


Prawn Cocktail: Spilled

by orphan_account



Category: Dictators and Crustaceans, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Darling Decapod, Dictators and crustaceans making sweet love, God Fears Me and Me Alone, Rule 34, Shrimp, Shrimp Anatomy, Wet 'n' Wild, i've written many things before but sweet jesus what the h, please have the anatomy of a shrimp handy, shrimp on shrimp action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It has been three months since that sinful, magical night when Saddam Hussein revealed his true form to Rodrigo Banderez. The two are lovers now, and their relationshrimp is nothing short of fin-tastic. This ship has sailed. Saddam Hussein has fallen for Rodrigo hook, line, and sinker…But the Iraqi dictator is not the only shrimp with sea-crets.





	Prawn Cocktail: Spilled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darling decapod](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darling+decapod).
  * Inspired by [Prawn Cocktail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11591754) by [abashedmallard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abashedmallard/pseuds/abashedmallard). 

It had been three months since that sinful, magical night.

Three months of open-mouthed kisses, foiling American assassins, and fine wines; three months of gallivanting through oil fields, violating human rights, and ruling Iraq with an iron cheliped.

You see, Saddam Hussein and Rodrigo were irrevocably in love. And what better way to show the world than holy matrimony? It was just as God himself had intended: a gay shrimp and another gay shrimp.

But such a union was in peril, for things are never as they seem. Secrets were bound to tumble from the wine glass in which they were held, a drink of false seduction, an amalgamation of forged passion. A cocktail of lies, spilled.

It leaves a stain that is strangely the color of turquoise.

*******

Cloves of royal jasmine filled the air with sweet perfume, white petals glowing in the dim lighting. A decanter of marie rose chilled in the ice bucket. Thick drops of condensation rolled down the sides of the bottle, sinking into the tablecloth, leaving dark spots behind. Candles’ flames sent shadows dancing across Saddam's face. His eyes, the color of burnt umber, shone in the light.

“I have a question, my sweet.”

Rodrigo toyed with the stem of his champagne flute. Rosé liquid lapped at the brim of the glass. “Yes, Saddam?” he ventured. His voice was even; it gave nothing away. Not the nervousness swelling in his cephalothorax. Not the excitement that made his antennal flagellum flutter.

Saddam smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Allow me to show you, my darling decapod. I sold one of my oil fields for this.” His hand disappeared from sight as he reached into his pocket.

Rodrigo leaned over the table to see Saddam withdraw a bijou, velvet box. The dictator opened it, and Rodrigo's eyes widened.

There, nestled in folds of silk, was a thin, silver band. Embedded in the ring was a square-cut piece of peridot. It shimmered in the candlelight, the color so verdant it made Rodrigo’s heart ache. This was the color of sunlight shining through forests’ canopies. The color of new beginnings in the spring.

Saddam lowered himself to the ground. “Rodrigo Banderez, would you do me the honor of being the happiest dictator in the world? Happier than Sankara implementing radical economic reform programs?”

For a brief second, time stilled. Indeed, ‘twas but a second, but to Rodrigo, it felt like an eternity yawned before him like a great chasm, and Saddam was asking him to leap into it, cheliped in cheliped.

The answer was clear.

“Oh, Saddam!” Rodrigo lunged forward and flung his maxillipeds around Saddam’s broad shoulders. The dictator's mustache scratched pleasantly against his scaphocerite as he brought their mouths together in a searing kiss.

When Saddam pulled away, his eyes had darkened to deep, obsidian pools, bottomless with desire. “Bed?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Bed,” Rodrigo agreed, grabbing the bottle of wine. His first pleopod stirred as Saddam stripped his human disguise to reveal a tantalizing stretch of exoskeleton. Unable to restrain his carnal desires any longer, Rodrigo grasped Saddam by the cheliped and led him down the hall.

The two shrimps entered Saddam’s bedroom and somehow found their way to the bed without separating. They fell onto the sheets in a tangled, heated mess of pereiopods and petasma.

Rodrigo bent low over Saddam’s cephalothorax, mouthing against the hard shell of his exoskeleton. He felt Saddam shudder beneath him, gasping a soft, “kiss me," that was barely audible through his panting.

Rodrigo obliged. Saddam tasted of plant matter and wine, and Rodrigo smiled against his scaphocerite. He had the dictator sprawled beneath him, moaning, utterly bewitched by the sight of Rodrigo. He had seduced power itself. The feeling was exhilarating.

The shrimps made sweet, sweet love that night. It was slow—languid, even, for neither shrimp wanted to rush what was passion unbridled, lust unleashed, desire untethered.

Afterward, they lay on the king-sized bed. Their exoskeletons were slick, their cephalothoraxes heaving.

Rodrigo felt Saddam stir beside him. “Rodrigo?”

Rodrigo turned to face him. Their antennal flagellums were inches apart, but that might as well have been miles, so Rodrigo shifted further until they touched. “Yes, Saddam?”

“There is… well, I… You never said yes.” Saddam looked up at the ceiling, the line of his mouth tense.

Rodrigo traced his tanned, muscular carapace with one maxilliped. “Saddam. Of course my answer is yes. But there is just one thing…” He trailed off.

Saddam’s gaze shifted to meet Rodrigo’s. “I would do anything for you, my darling decapod." He cupped Rodrigo’s cheek. “What would you have me do?”

“Perish.”

"My sweet, what are you—"

A flash of silver arched through the air. Blade met the hard chitin of Saddam's exoskeleton, and the dagger punched through with a sickening crack.

"—doing," Saddam gasped, staring at Rodrigo with pain-filled eyes.

"What does it look like," Rodrigo replied, his voice stripped of its previous warmth. He buried the dagger deeper into Saddam’s carapace, the black hilt stark against the flush of the dictator's exoskeleton. Blue-green blood dripped from the wound in thick drops, staining the mattress turquoise.

A choked sound escaped Saddam’s throat.

“You see,” drawled Rodrigo, straddling Saddam’s abdomen, “you’re not the only one who hid who they are." The shrimp reached up to grasp the top of his rostrum.

Saddam watched as his lover peeled off his exoskeleton, revealing that the hard shell was a veneer. A mask. What lay beneath was the truth, and the realization was like a second dagger to Saddam's carapace.

Rodrigo was not a shrimp. Nor was he a “he.”

She flung the mask away. Saddam took in a razor-sharp jawline, cropped, dark brown hair, and even darker eyes. The human shook out her hair. It fell just before her shoulders, the ends curling up to brush her cheek.

“Who… who are you?”

The human tilted her head. “I’ll tell you,” she said, her voice austere, “but only because you’ll die before you speak my name: Ameena.”

Saddam’s lips moved soundlessly, mouthing the name. He drew in a stilted breath, and he managed to gasp, “_Why_? Why seduce me, why deceive me, why make me _love_ you?”

Ameena leaned forward and whispered, “because horny people have no rights. Also, the human rights violations weren’t very cash money of you.” She smirked as tears leaked from the corners of Saddam's eyes, then she took hold of the dagger and twisted it further.

That was all it took. The light faded from Saddam Hussein’s eyes, leaving a hollow husk where there once had been a proud, handsome shrimp dictator, lost in love, lost in passion.

Dagger in hand, Ameena stood. Her steps were soundless as she strode across the room and came to a stop in front of a window. It was open. Warm Iraqi air drifted into the room, stirring the curtains with a whisper of silk. The assassin paid one last glance to the limp dictator on the bed. Beside him, on the nightstand, was the bottle of marie rose, gleaming in the moonlight. She allowed herself a smile. A sharp, dangerous expression that left men trembling with fear and desire in tandem.

“Goodbye, my decadent dictator.”

Then, as if she slipped into a slit in the night, Ameena disappeared.

Two months later, Fidel Castro was found in his bed, spent and lifeless.

**Author's Note:**

> Bet that diagram was real handy, wasn't it? ;)
> 
> Yes, this is where the link led, and this author’s note is where I shall say my piece. Also, yeah, I’m saying this on ao3 because why the hell not? What better way to express my fondness for you than on a fanfiction site that holds more data than the Library of Congress?
> 
> Okay, so. I am truly lucky to know you. Your friendship is something I hold very close to my heart. Your sense of humor murders me at times. Your passion is frankly inspiring. A moment is never wasted when it is spent talking to you. I am able to write over 1k words about former dictator Saddam Hussein and his illicit, fictitious lover, yet it is hard to put down in words how thankful I am to have you in my life. You are important to me, and you should know this.
> 
> Happy birthday, my darling decapod.
> 
> (I Am Going To Hell!)


End file.
